You Don’t Know What It’s Like

This from Ryan: honest and true and riddled with the grace we’re dependent on.

Rumblings

One day, three conversations.

1. I’m at a function where my job is to give a short devotional and prayer before the meal.  Pastor-y stuff.  You know.  I’m trying to be witty, disarming, light.  I make some throwaway comment about how I know we’re all hungry and that the soup smells good, but please won’t you just spare 5 minutes or so for the presence to descend?  I do my thing.  Appreciative smiles, all around.  Let’s eat.  I wander around the room, hungry for praise, when a woman approaches me.  I smile warmly, preparing myself for the inevitable, “oh, thank you for your words” and “that was so wonderful” or some other appropriately appreciative expression of gratitude.  But she isn’t smiling.  “You shouldn’t have said that, you know!”  I look blankly at her.  “Um, what?”  “About being hungry.  We’re not hungry.  None of us has ever been hungry.  Certainly not…

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“Who Sees and Sings and Wonders Why…”

A favorite:

Rumblings

Poetry doesn’t tend to agree with me.  Or, more precisely, I don’t tend to agree with it.  I’m too linear or dully rationalistic or unimaginative or…  Too, well, something.  Or, perhaps, not enough something.  I so often just don’t get it.  I read a poem (or, more likely, a few lines from a poem), scratch my head, struggling to decipher “the meaning” of the strange words and patterns, the unfamiliar arrangements of syllables and syntax on the page, furrow my brow, read harder, more determinedly, try, try again, and then retreat, defeated, tail between my legs, to the safety and predictability of prose. Poetry so often seems like a country I have never visited filled with sights and sounds that are destined to forever remain inaccessible to this provincial boy.

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Just another thought: Thin ice & the Gospel

The more aware I become of how thin the ice is that we’re all skating on,
the heavier my heart and footsteps become. The more heavy-hearted I am,
the more plodding my steps, the more I risk breaking through the ice
and sinking into piercing cold and suffocating darkness.
From here, the only theology of “Good News” that matters
looks like a branch, a blanket, and an embrace.
Anything else is just more thin ice.